Blood
by charmedsilence
Summary: Athelstan's dreams were always of blood.


**A/N: Not really a story, more rambling about Athelstan and faith and violence and blood.**

**Blood**

Sometimes, when he closed his eyes at night and drifted into sleep, rather than seeing the glory of his god, Athelstan saw blood, pools and puddles of red, splatters and sprays. His dream vision was coated in scarlet. How much had he seen shed in the year he'd spent with Ragnar and Lagertha? How many had died? Would he ever truly understand the ways of these people that somehow he had come to love?

And there was the time before, in Lindisfarne; his brothers slaughtered, shouting, crying, hiding as the Norsemen swung their axes and brandished their swords. They stabbed and hacked and chopped until most of the monks were dead. They showed no remorse, these raiders from the north. It was their way. And they would not apologize for that.

Athelstan's life became the property of Ragnar. But his soul would never belong to anyone but his god, his savior. Yes, he expressed curiosity about the Norse gods and the legends that surrounded them. And yes, Athelstan often found the tales enthralling. And he had to admit that on occasion their gods sounded much like his.

Perhaps no one knew the real truth. Perhaps 'God' stared down at all of them and laughed, laughed at humanity's petty attempts to explain him. That thought shook the young monk. Still, his faith in God and in God's son, Jesus Christ, rarely wavered. It had gotten him through self doubt and loss and pain. It healed his heart and soothed and gave shape and meaning to his life.

In this land of blood and battle and slaughter and sacrifice, Athelstan survived. As the days and weeks and months sped by, he blended more easily, acquired more freedoms, and was a citizen much like the rest of those in Ragnar's village. He spoke less of his god, no longer wore his faith outwardly like some holy shield. He kept his cross about his wrist, tied with a leather band. He wore their clothes and adopted their hairstyle and participated in their rituals and their customs.

He stared in awe at the majesty of their lands. He ate their foods and slept in their beds. Outwardly, Athelstan was a Norseman. He wondered if _their_ dreams, Ragnar's and Lagertha's and Floki's and Bjorn's were filled with blood too. And if they were, did these dreams disturb or comfort?

The monk hid his faith and smiled with tolerant bewilderment when Ragnar teased. Did the warrior truly accept him or was he still a 'slave', albeit one who had become a part of Ragnar's family? Did Ragnar trust completely? How quickly would the Norseman turn on the monk? How quickly would the new leader sacrifice the foreigner?

~~~~0000~~~~

From the moment their pilgrimage to Uppsala began, Athelstan was uneasy. Did he imagine the looks that people gave him, sly and sneaky and full of knowledge that he did not have? Athelstan felt like a tag along, someone brought perhaps to show the keepers of the shrine, an exotic mystery, a Christian. He felt his outsider status more keenly than ever on the journey and at Uppsala itself; there was a secret he was not privy to and everyone was laughing at him. Of that the monk was sure.

And then he'd learned of the animal sacrifices; seven of each creature. Athelstan could live with that. But the human sacrifices, seven souls slaughtered to appease and to please the gods, well the very idea of that froze his insides. How could they? How did they choose? How did these people accept their fates with such calm?

When the monk thought about it, he supposed that these men were the ultimate sacrifice; seven of their own good people given up, fathers, brothers, sons, husbands lost. Would the gods not favor them then? Would the gods not protect those willing to offer up such precious lives?

He wandered about the camp, alone, lonely, witness to orgies and drinking and laughter and feasting. So much of the laughter was at his expense. Athelstan was certain of it. He ate the mushrooms offered him and drifted off into an unknown realm. Blurry, sped up images assaulted his eyes and his mind. He felt and didn't feel. Emotions were no longer his own. He drifted through the camp, and his body almost took flight. Laughter claimed him. But it wasn't happy. It was manic. And he kissed a girl and she bathed him and then somehow, he knew. His brain denied it, but his soul knew. The monk buried the knowledge beneath layers and layers of minutia, so far down that he could not see it any longer.

Questioned about his faith, he lied, denying his Christianity, trying to answer as they wanted. But when pushed, his voice lost its sureness. His gaze wavered. Athelstan's fingers fumbled for the cross, hating his betrayal, and the temple keeper saw. Exposed, Athelstan was pushed aside, no longer what they wanted, no longer suitable for sacrifice.

His god, as Ragnar pointed out with that infuriating smirk, had come through. He would live.

And he watched with horror and grief as the other men were sacrificed, the flesh of their throats sliced open, wet, red mouths weeping, the blood collected in bowls, their bodies hung up like meat to cure. Athelstan watched his replacement die. And that image would stay with him forever. And dreams that he dreamt were perpetually coloured scarlet.


End file.
